Distance
by BryonieAnne
Summary: John and Sherlock think they should keep their distance, but distance makes the heart grow fonder! First Johnlock fic, please be nice! Based on Distance by Christina Perri. Oneshot. Johnlock.


**Hey! This is my first ever Johnlock fic and I'm extremely excited to be putting it up here. Also a little nervous, this fandom has some amazing writers that I can't even compare to! Anyway, here it is, set to Distance by Christina Perri. It's a really beautiful song if you'd like to listen to it! **

**I don't own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson, although I wish I did! We can all thank ACD for original Holmes and Watson, and Moftiss for their adorable spin on it! Critique and Reviews are always welcome :)**

_The sun is filling up the room  
and I can hear you dreaming  
do you feel the way I do right now?_

John Watson stretched his legs out lazily in front of his arm chair. The sun was beginning to set on 221 B Baker Street and the light from the window was casting a hazy pink glow across the room. John relaxed a little lower in his chair, trying to shut out the sound of Sherlock's mumbling. They had been working on a relatively hard case (although nothing was too hard for Sherlock) and after a few riveting chases through the back alleys of London, they'd lost the perp. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock found him again, but losing the murderer had put him in a sour mood; and when Sherlock was in a sour mood, he curled up into the fetal position on the sofa and talked to himself. John had seen this mood enough that it rarely bothered him anymore. It was just a quirk he'd grown to like about Sherlock.

John looked towards the man in question and stared hard at his back. He couldn't see Sherlock's face, only the mop of unruly black curls that was fastened atop his head, and the blue silk expanse of his back (the blue silk being his dressing gown, of course). Every once in a while he saw Sherlock twitch, as though he'd thought about getting out of his angry stupor but then decided against it. John shook his head silently. The man was impossible to live with, and yet John couldn't find himself imagining a life without him.

_I wish we would just give up  
'cause the best part is falling  
call it anything but love_

John rose fluidly out of his chair (every time they were on a case he forgot about his limp for a few days afterwards) and put on the kettle. "Tea, Sherlock?" he shouted across the flat.

"Black, two sugars."

John nodded silently. He didn't need Sherlock to remind him how he liked his tea. He made Sherlock tea every day, and as with everything else he knew about the walled-off man, he filed it away in his small mind flat. He had told Sherlock one day that he had taken to arranging his mind into a sort of flat. It wasn't as grand as Sherlock's mind palace, but it was sure to suit John just fine. There he stored his medical knowledge, anything he knew about Sherlock, and the small amount of knowledge he had that might in some way help Sherlock (such as the solar system, political leaders, and international affairs).

The day after he'd made his mind flat, he sat all day furnishing it with this and that: bookcases to hold his medical books all in order, so he could reach in and pull one out with ease; his favorite chair from Baker Street, complete with the Union Jack pillow; all his favorite jumpers lined up in a row, so he'd no longer have to stand for minutes on end in front of his real life closet. He had admired his handiwork with his mind flat, and was about to leave when he noticed a door that hadn't been there when he originally created the flat. It was a large oak door, perfect and pristine, with golden ornate initials on it. As John got closer he noticed the distinct "SH" written in Sherlock's own hand. John groaned. Now Sherlock was encroaching on his mind flat as well?

He opened the heavy door slowly and flicked on the light (_Why does my mind flat need lights? Shouldn't it just be light all the time?)_. He gasped as he saw a large library, twice as big as his mind flat itself, filled from ceiling to floor with books. John cautiously pulled one out from the closest bookcase and wiped the dust off the front cover. He flipped through pages, recognizing his own terrible handwriting stretched across the page. He focused on one page:  
"My notes on Sherlock Holmes,

Knowledge of Literature – none.  
Knowledge of Philosophy – none.  
Knowledge of Astronomy – none.  
Knowledge of Politics – Feeble.  
Knowledge of Gardening – Variable. Can tell any poison apart from another. Knows nothing of practical gardening.  
Knowledge of Geology – Practical, but limited. Knows any part of London by mud or soil.  
Knowledge of Chemistry – Profound.  
Knowledge of Anatomy – Accurate, but unsystematic.  
Knowledge of Sensational Literature – Immense. Knows every horror perpetrated in the century.  
Plays the violin well.  
Fights wonderfully.  
Practical knowledge of British Law."

And underneath these original deductions, John had added more, hurriedly:

"Terrible at Cluedo.  
Will sit for days on end not eating and barely breathing.  
Takes his tea black with two sugars.  
Seems happy when I bring home milk.  
Notices me more when I wear the striped jumper (must wash often!)  
Enjoys being complimented.  
Likes calling me an idiot.  
Is willing to fake death to solve a case (still not forgiven him for that)  
Actually does have a heart, it would seem.  
Gets snippy when I bring home dates (jealousy? Probably not.)  
His smile lights up a room.  
I would do anything to see him smile more often."  
John smirked and put the book back on the shelf before walking out of the room.

_And I will make sure to keep my distance  
say "I love you" when you're not listening  
how long can we keep this up, up, up?_

John poured two sugars into Sherlock's cup, and some cream to his own. He stirred quickly, anxious to be back in the same room as Sherlock. When had he become so obsessed with the detective? John hardly knew. He supposed it must have crept up on him one day, and subtly changed his views of the man until John had completely changed without realizing it. He didn't remember when he suddenly realized that Sherlock's low chuckle was one of his favorite sounds in the world, or when he had become so attached to him that being separated felt like someone was sawing his heart in half. One day, he just knew. He woke up one day and his mind told him "you love Sherlock Holmes" and it was so incredibly true and innocent that he couldn't even fight back.

But John knew Sherlock more than he knew anyone else. And he knew Sherlock wouldn't like to hear his profound discovery about himself. Sherlock was married to his work, and had told John a few times that the idea of love was distinctly _not his area._ John loved the man enough to hide it entirely. He wanted nothing more than to remain by Sherlock's side for the rest of his life, and if that meant as friends, then so be it. John Watson would give up anything for Sherlock Holmes, including his own feelings. But sometimes, when John was feeling very lonely, or Sherlock had had a rather rough day, John would creep up to the closed door of the detective's bedroom. He'd place his ear against the wood, listening for Sherlock's heavy, sleep-induced breathing, and he would whisper, so quietly even he could barely hear it, that he loved him dearly.

_And please don't stand so close to me  
I'm having trouble breathing  
I'm afraid of what you'll see right now_

Sherlock huffed. Why was John taking so long to make a bloody cup of tea? Perhaps he should get up and make a cuppa himself. He grimaced, but began to sit up, nonetheless. As he turned towards the room, away from the back of the sofa, John's face was suddenly in view. Incredibly close… dangerously so. Whenever John was this close to Sherlock, he'd get a funny feeling in his stomach. He didn't quite know what it was; it felt like he'd eaten a jar full of flies for breakfast and now they were flapping around in his stomach, disturbing the peace of his innards. But Sherlock knew that was highly illogical and tried to kill the imaginary flies by drowning them with the tea John had handed to him. John retreated from Sherlock, taking all the warmth from the room with him, and sat on his armchair across the small living space. Sherlock huffed again.

"Still a bit grouchy, then?" John was holding his teacup up to his lips but Sherlock could see the smile in his eyes.

"I don't get grouchy, John," Sherlock harrumphed. He made a mental note to never _harrumph_ after stating that he _didn't_ get grumpy. He should have laughed. John screwed up his mental prowess sometimes, and made him forget things. "I'm just thinking."

"Right," John laughed. It was a beautiful twinkling sound, Sherlock made a mental note. Then he told his brain to stop it, and deleted it from his hard drive. "I'll try to forget that you've been huffing on the sofa for four hours."

_I give you everything I am  
all my broken heart beats  
until I know you'll understand_

A few days later Sherlock still wasn't out of his angry stupor. Contrary to John's quite obvious observations, Sherlock wasn't wrapped up in the case of the murderer. No, Sherlock had a new case that was quite literally the hardest one he'd ever encountered. He sat on the sofa that had been his home for the past few days, his hands forming a steeple against his chin. He was trying to make sense of those horrifying insects flying around his stomach. They seemed to lie low, until John was near. When John got a bit too close to Sherlock, or accidentally brushed his hand when passing him a cuppa or walking beside each other, the insects flared up. They would buzz and fly around Sherlock's body for hours on end, until Sherlock finally decided to retreat to bed. The next morning the insects returned to their dormant state. It was infuriating, not knowing the cause of this intrusion. Sherlock had tried to make the conscious decision to avoid John, to see if maybe the insects would retreat, but John would get close again and Sherlock would forget everything he'd told himself to do in that event.

John seemed to get close more often now too. He would accidentally bump into Sherlock in the living room, although there was tons of space around them. Or when they were walking the streets of London, John would walk a little closer, letting his hand brush Sherlock's more than once.

But what did it all mean? Sherlock retreated to his mind palace to start shifting around boxes. Maybe he'd stashed some knowledge of these insects somewhere in there. He walked slowly around the large palace, checking room after room and coming up blank. Sherlock wasn't surprised, he'd never had this feeling before, why would he have notes on it? When he finished searching the last room, and was preparing to close the door, he heard John's voice coming from their actual flat.

Sherlock blinked and returned to the real world. "Hm?" Sherlock was staring straight ahead, still a little dazed from being pulled out of his mind palace so abruptly. He turned to face John, who was obviously standing in the door. "Sorry I was searching my mind palace for something and I-" he cut off when he saw that John had a woman standing beside him.

John turned slightly red and glanced briefly at his hand, interlocked with the woman's. Sherlock grimaced. John hadn't brought a woman to Baker Street in months, why did he have to now, when Sherlock was _obviously_ busy? Sherlock felt a slight pang in his stomach. What was that? He hardly knew, but what he did know was that he definitely _didn't like_ that John was holding someone's hand.

"This the flatmate you were telling me about?" The woman spoke, her voice high and breathy. Sherlock glared at her, trying to find a way to make her leave. What had John always said? His deductions made people uncomfortable. He'd certainly caused Anderson to leave many times by stating obvious facts. Why couldn't he do the same here? He definitely disliked the woman as much as Anderson. So Sherlock stared, putting his deducting skills to good work, finding out any gritty details. He smirked as he looked her over, finding a lot of very interesting things. The whole process took less than ten seconds and after John said "yes, this is Sherlock", he jumped into his spiel.

"Jessica, is it? Jessica or Jennifer, although the first is more likely. I wonder how many men you have seen today and if John here is to be the last for tonight or will there be another? Perhaps that cabby you've just gotten the ride from, he was so sweet wasn't he?"

Jessica's mouth was set into a firm line and John closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he was willing Sherlock to just get it over with. Sherlock obliged, not even waiting for her inevitable "how did you know that?"

"It is possible you've only seen one man before John today, it being more than one was just speculation, although a good one. Judging by the state of your knees you've been on them a lot today, as you haven't changed your clothes to rid your trouser leg of the marks. It's possible that you've been on your knees in front of John but that's not likely, seeing as how John's pants are as perfectly pressed as they were when he left the flat this morning, so they haven't been pulled down. I suppose you could be cleaning floors but judging by the cleanliness of your nails and the perfection of your polish I beg to differ. Your hair is much less perfect on your left side than your right, and a woman like you clearly presses her hair before she leaves every day. So you've been doing a whole lot of something, haven't you? Clothes are wrinkled, so they've been on the floor for at least 30 minutes, and the cotton string in your hair, oh don't worry its barely noticeable, agrees with my statement that you've been sleeping, or rather _not_ sleeping, somewhere in the past, say, two hours. Lipstick is smudged, corroborating my story."

Jessica's mouth had fallen open and John gave a warning "Sherlock,"

"Not now, John, I'm almost done. Close your mouth, Jessica, it's not becoming. Now, about the cabby. _How did you know that, Sherlock?_ Simplicity. John has shoved his money back into his pocket, so it seems he was going to pay for the cab but you declined the offer, as your purse is still open and clearly missing most of the money. John waited outside while you paid, and you gave the cabby your number with the money. Am I correct? Of course I am. Blue smudge on your fingers suggests you wrote something in a hurry, and the small piece of paper in your purse is ripped, clearly what you wrote on. How do I know it was your number? I can clearly see on your thumb the strokes of a 5 and a 9, should have used faster drying ink. How do I know it was the cabby? You've written within the last 2 minutes since the ink on your hands is smudging as you fiddle with your coat since it hasn't yet dried. There's no reason to give John your number, you're here with him at the flat. Is that all? Yes I believe so. Do tell me if I've missed something."

_And I will make sure to keep my distance  
say "I love you" when you're not listening  
how long can we keep this up, up, up?_

John, much to Sherlock's dismay, had run after Jessica when she'd stormed out of the flat. Sherlock huffed. Why did John need her anyway? Sherlock was obviously better company. Sherlock was making a mental list of all the reasons he was better company than some woman when John reappeared in the door.

"Damn it, Sherlock," he began as he usually did when Sherlock embarrassed his girlfriends. Sherlock tried to keep the self-satisfied smirk off his face.

"I already knew that stuff about her. I brought her here because I knew she would deliver. I know you probably don't understand this, but I haven't shagged anyone in months. I haven't even snogged anyone in months! Once in a while, I need something like this. I know you haven't shagged or snogged anyone _ever_ so you clearly don't know how much you crave it when it's gone. I just want one day, Sherlock, when I can pretend like somebody cares about me enough to kiss me. Then she'll go home and I'll be good for a while. But now I don't even get that. Why do you do this to me, Sherlock?" John had paced around the living room for his speech and after glaring at Sherlock when it ended, he retreated to his room, and all Sherlock could hear was the slamming door.

Sherlock sat alone on the couch for a long while. His thoughts were whirring around in his head, almost as fast as the blasted flies in his stomach. Ah! The bloody flies! Surely someone else in the world had felt them, and where better to look than the internet?

Sherlock flipped open his laptop (or rather, John's laptop, his was in the kitchen, far too long to walk) and quickly typed "flies in my stomach". He thought it sounded rather foolish, but poked the enter key anyway. The search page loaded quickly and he saw the familiar blue print. Did you mean: _butterflies in my stomach_?

Sherlock groaned inwardly. Did it really matter what type of insect it was? He clicked the blue text anyway, and scrolled down the page. When he reached the first link he felt as though his heart leapt up into his throat.

_So this is the answer, then, _Sherlock mused, _I'm in love with John Watson._

_And I keep waiting  
for you to take me_

John lay in bed huffing. He'd stormed up to his bedroom two hours ago, but couldn't make himself fall asleep. Of course he should have known not to bring Jessica to the flat. The odds were ten to one that Sherlock would have embarrassed her. But at the time John couldn't think about that. All he could think of was possibly getting his mind off the wonder that was his flatmate. He wanted to take his mind off of Sherlock for a few blissful moments, and pretend that he cared about someone who cared back.

John slowly peeled himself off his bed and stood in front of the mirror. His large striped jumper was a little loose, and it bunched up in places. His jeans were much too long, considering how short he was. His hair was a bit mussed in the back from his tossing on the bed, and he was missing a sock. He laughed at his reflection, and a silent tear fell down his cheek.

_You keep waiting  
to save what we have_

Sherlock paced the front room. He knew many things. He could identify a poison from the smell, a person's job by their right thumb, and he could find a serial killer based only on a hair left at a crime scene. But _this_ he knew nothing about. Sherlock Holmes, the genius, knew nothing of Love. What should he do with his new realization? How did people show others they're loved? How could he show John? Sherlock groaned at his last question.

How could he show John without ruining their friendship? He was almost positive that his feelings were requited (if John's constant staring and continuous lip-licking were to be trusted) but there was still a glimmer of doubt. A soft voice in his head (sounded a lot like Mycroft, the sod) telling him that he would be making a huge mistake.

Sherlock Holmes, the genius, let his head drop into his hands. He was, for once, utterly unsure.

_So I'll make sure to keep my distance  
say "I love you" when you're not listening  
How long can we keep this up, up, up?_

Sherlock's head snapped up as John walked quietly down the steps into the front room. For a few moments they stared at each other, both trying to convey silent feelings; but they focused too much on showing their own, and not enough in reading the others.

John broke away after a while and walked into the kitchen. A cup of tea would do him nicely right about now. He filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. He kept himself busy fussing about the kitchen; finding the two _good_ tea cups (the only ones Sherlock hadn't permanently dyed or ruined with experiments), placing the tea bags inside, and pulling the sugar bowl close. As the kettle began to shriek John lifted it off the stove and poured just enough into the cups. He prepared the two teas mindlessly, and hadn't noticed that Sherlock had made his way into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock rumbled in his deep baritone voice. John jumped a bit and turned around.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Really. I probably would have regretted it in the morning, anyway." He smiled a little, and Sherlock's returning grin lit up the entire room. "So thank you for saving me that regret. That's, what, the hundredth time you've stopped me?"

Sherlock laughed in response. "Do you know why I do it, John?" he stepped closer to his smaller flatmate, causing John's breath to hitch.

"No," John squeaked (only a little!).

Sherlock had closed the gap between them entirely. He now stood directly in front of John, although he was a head taller. He leant down and lightly touched the top of John's head with his lips. He could feel the shorter man shiver below him. "Because I don't like it. I don't like it when you come in holding hands with some woman you've just met. I don't like it when those women get to touch you whenever they want. I don't like how they make you feel cared about. I don't like how they get to see you laugh all the time, or how they get to kiss you. I don't like how you look in the morning, all lost and unloved. I don't like any of that. Because I want to be the one to hold hands with you. I want to touch you whenever I want. I want to make you feel cared about. I want to see you laugh, and I want to kiss you. And if I had my way you'd never feel lost or unloved again. Because I love you."

Sherlock backed away slightly when John started giggling. His giggling turned into a loud belly laugh, and Sherlock couldn't help but join in. He felt so free now that he'd admitted it all.

"Oh, Sherlock," John smiled once he was able to cease laughing. "I want that too. I've always wanted that. I brought girls home to try and make me forget about you."

Sherlock smiled, bringing his head directly level with John's. "Well, you won't have to do that anymore."

He leaned slowly towards John, and when their lips touched, Sherlock felt his constantly-moving brain shut down.

_Make sure to keep my distance  
say "I love you" when you're not listening  
How long 'til we call this love, love, love?_

John awoke the next morning in a tangle of limbs, his favorite brown-haired detective curled up beside him. He breathed in the heady scent of the man. He smelled like tobacco, tea and mint, and John realized that it was his favorite smell on earth. He leaned over to kiss Sherlock's cheek and smiled to himself.

He wouldn't have to keep his distance anymore.


End file.
